


In Which Bro Has a Fetish [And That Surprises No One, Least of All Bro]

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bulges and Nooks, Dual Bulges, M/M, Oral Sex, Piercings, Really? That's Not A Tag??, Sexual Content, piercing kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1841479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time you meet him, they’re hardly noticeable. </p><p> </p><p>Flat studs in a dull, matte metal, flush against his pale skin, and it takes you an embarrassingly long time [almost twelve minutes of flirting, to be exact] to catch sight of them. Once you notice the snakebites, though, everything else falls into place- the nose bridge barbell, the temple piercings, hidden by his choppy bangs and only visible when he shifts, the rings and studs in his ears. When you make him laugh, you think you catch the slightest glimpse of what might be doubled tongue rings, and you’re hooked. You had to find out what else, if anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Bro Has a Fetish [And That Surprises No One, Least of All Bro]

**Author's Note:**

> im trash shhh don't tell anyone

The first time you meet him, they’re hardly noticeable. 

 

 

Flat studs in a dull, matte metal, flush against his pale skin, and it takes you an embarrassingly long time [almost twelve minutes of flirting, to be exact] to catch sight of them. Once you notice the snakebites, though, everything else falls into place- the nose bridge barbell, the temple piercings, hidden by his choppy bangs and only visible when he shifts, the rings and studs in his ears. When you make him laugh, you think you catch the slightest glimpse of what might be doubled tongue rings, and you’re hooked. You had to find out what else, if anything. 

 

The second meeting, then the third, go the same. You take him out on dates, you woo him, you coax him into your arms and your bed and the more you get to know him, the more you’re shocked by his adornments because they just don’t  _fit_. He’s tall and skinny and sort of bitter, sort of shy, shoulders constantly hunched, voice never raised, the stereotypical shut in and he’s so  _unremarkable_  despite his species [like water, like wallpaper] that the studs and rings and piercings just… they shouldn’t work, but they do. 

 

Most of his kind don’t go for the body modifications, but he’s different. You know he’s one of your brother’s friend’s ancestors or whatever, one of the ones who’d been part of the game, which made his deviance into human culture even more astounding, or perhaps not. You don’t know. What you do know is that he’s attractive, despite- or maybe because of- his shyness and, contrarily, his unrelenting sarcasm, and the piercings only add another level of interest to him, a layer of incongruity and dissonance that he didn’t even need because you were attracted to him from the second you saw his face.

 

He’s under you, now, lisping pleas for you to do something, anything, but you take your time, of course. You’re an asshole like that, and it had taken way, _way_ too long to get him in this position for you to blow through it quickly. 

 

His body is thin, all bones and sharp angles, though you can feel hidden muscles tense and flex with every brush of your hands, wiry and stretched out along his scarecrow frame. He wears layers, to keep himself warm, and its with great delight that you pry them away, jacket by sweater by shirt, until he’s clad in barely anything at all and his form is left for your perusal. 

 

You start with his face, brushing your lips along the dips and divots of his markings, boring metal changed out to bright red and blue, just for you [because you’d mentioned how dull the other were, how impersonal, how unlike him because he is as far from dull and impersonal as you can get]. The bars through his temples, the one through the bridge of his nose, the studs on either side of his lips, and when you kiss him deep, you feel his doubled tongues, a small ring through each tip. The metal is cool in your mouth, foreign and bitter and perfect, and you part only when you’re out of breath, both of your chests heaving. 

 

You bite and lick down his neck, to the knifelike jut of his collarbones, to the single post in the dip between them, the only one missing a match. You haven’t asked why, and he hasn’t told you, but you know this one is special, so you give it more attention, tracing your tongue over the mismatched, rough hewn jade stud, the only one not part of his color scheme. He’s gasping and writhing by the time you move on, but it’s easy work to pin him, your broader, stronger body keeping him still despite his protests. 

 

He’s got piercings in the small protrusions along his sides, grub scars he calls them, highly sensitive and chock full of nerves and you think you can make him come just by focusing all your attention on those, if his reactions are anything to go by. He moans, whimpering and pleading for you, but you’re cruel and don’t feel like doing what he asks. 

 

“Bro-“ he stutters, voice hoarse, raspy with pleasure, “Bro,  _please_ -“

 

You silence him with a kiss, releasing his wrists, and he immediately seizes your hair, skinny coding fingers twisting and pulling you closer until your pressed chest to chest, the strange, inhuman double pound of his heart fluttering in his ribcage and his skin feels so thin over it that you bet you could just reach in and snatch it out. 

 

His body is so humanlike that the inhuman aspects are made even more jarring, but if it bothered you, you wouldn’t have pursued him. You like to think you’re an openminded individual [running an underground puppet smut website will open one’s eyes to the depravity of humanity, you know full well], and as an openminded individual, you pay attention to his differences and then, obviously, stick your mouth on them. 

 

You kiss and lick your way back down his chest, skimming your tongue over those pretty little spots of color on his sides, until you’re settled between his legs, hands pressed against his flat stomach. His fingers are still buried in your hair, and he pulls reflexively when you press your lips to one of his protruding hipbones, right above the barbells he has there. 

 

“Bro,” he says, looking down at you, mismatched eyes wide, and you lave the piercing in response, smirking at the high, atavistic noise that spills from his lips. 

 

He’s only got one hand wrapped up in your hair now, the other doing its best to support his negligible weight, but as you lap and tease at the barbell, you can feel his whole body start to shake. When you turn your attention to the one decorating his left hip, he keens, back arching, and his arm gives out, sending him falling back to the bed, almost insensate. 

 

Whatever the fuck he has going on downstairs is definitely interested by now- you can feel it squirming against your chest like a bag full of eels and while the thought isn’t exactly sexy, you’re safe to say a lifetime of shitty japanese anime and a shit ton of Alternian porn has prepared you for the worst. As long as it doesn’t have teeth, you can probably handle it, and it’s with that thought that you slide his last bit of clothing off, tossing it behind you carelessly. 

 

Fucking tentacles, You knew, there’s really no reason to be surprised- you did your fucking research, after all, you knew what you were getting into- but it's the difference between seeing it on Tv and almost literally getting slapped in the face with it; plus, you’re pretty sure your partner’s packing more than usual, if the vids you'd seen are anything to go off of. 

 

There’s two of them, twisting and knotting with each other, smeared with golden slime in a way that should not be sexy yet somehow inexplicably is. There aren’t any piercings on them, but they’re ridged, little bumps the size of your thumbnail decorating the inner curve, and they’re about as long as your forearm, from elbow to wrist. 

 

You don’t see any teeth, though, so you’re still good. 

 

You wrap your hands around his waist, thumbs brushing against the barbells on his hips, and push him flat against the bed, holding him still as you take a chance and lick up the side of one of the wavy yellow tentacles. 

 

His reaction is better than you would have expected- a sharp jerk, babbled nonsense, and his hands in your hair, trying to guide your head closer. When you lick him again, the other tentacle this time, he spews out words you can hardly understand, filthy words and desperate pleas and begging and who are you to deny such a pretty thing, telling you what to do?

 

It's different than you’re used to, but you manage to coax one of his squirmy appendages into your mouth, tracing your tongue over the bumps and ridges of it and he chitters, actually fucking _chitters_ at you, eyes flashing like strobe lights at a club, irregular and pulsing. 

 

“Oh- Oh god, oh god, Bro-“ he whimpers, and if it weren’t for your grip on his hips, he would have choked you with his uncontrolled writhing. He acts like no one’s ever done this to him before, which is fucked up because he’s gorgeous, so fucking _pretty_ lost to pleasure like this, making strange, inhuman noises in the back of his throat and arching his spine as much as you allow, begging with body language for more. 

 

Though, thinking about it, it would make sense. If you were him, you would not want those terrifying sharklike troll teeth anywhere near your junk, either. 

 

You think you could sit like this all day, if your knees would allow it, just sucking him off and listening to all the scandalous noises he makes,  feel the way his body rolls against your hands as he tries not to move, but he’s begging for it and you can see that in the way his nook is fluttering, desperate for something to fill it. 

 

When you press two fingers against the slick opening he jolts, shuddering from head to toe, whine picking up an octave. 

 

“Bro, f- _fuck_ ,” he cries, head twisting from side to side as you slide first one, then the other finger inside of him, curling and wriggling them slowly, like you imagine one of the tentacle-bulges would move. 

 

The bulge in your mouth thrashes, nearly gagging you before you can pull back enough to keep yourself from choking, and you can barely hold him still enough with one hand pressed against his stomach. You are not inexperienced by any means, but you don’t think you’ve ever had to deep throat a wriggling tentacle before, either, so you allow yourself a bit of breathing room before sinking your mouth back down, swallowing as much as you can. 

 

He gives you a choked whine in response, hands pulling at your hair in a way you can tell isn’t voluntary. He’s fucking perfect, every inch of him, from the way his hair’s ruffled and slick with sweat to the way his piercings glint in the dim lighting of you room, bright points of color on his grey skin. You can only play with him a bit longer before you’re too impatient yourself to continue, and he makes a sound like he’s dying when you pull away from him. 

 

“Bro-“ he says, voice needy, and blue and red sparks pull at your shirt, helping you shuck it off. Your pants are next, till you’re in nothing but your hat and glasses, and you might be ironic but even you can’t pull that off so those join the pile of clothes on the floor as well. 

 

“What do you want from me, honey?” you say, and he flushes, eyes dimming then brightening again in embarrassment. 

 

“You,” he murmurs, covering his face with his hands. “You, I want- I want you, I want you to- to pail me- please-“

 

You press your body against his, chest to chest, and kiss him hard, and he clutches you to him and rolls his hips up against yours, the cool metal of his piercings brushing your skin in a manner you find entirely too pleasing. 

 

“Sounds like a great idea,” you reply, and he rubs his cheek against yours, the steel of the barbell in his temple a teasing, artificial pressure against your face. It’s quick work to slick yourself up with the viscous fluid practically dripping from between his legs, thicker and slicker and better than any commercially available lube you have on hand, and then you take your time sinking into him, inch by agonizing inch. 

 

You've done your research, you know it’s possible for you to fit, despite the disparate rigidity of your own hardness, but it’s tight and he’s hot, almost painfully so, wet heat clenching down on you with every careful motion. 

 

“You doin' all right?” you ask, seating yourself fully inside him, the walls of his nook shivering around you in anticipation of movement that you aren’t capable of, and he stared up at you with half closed, glazed eyes and whines wordlessly, puling you closer. 

 

“I need a verbal answer, honey.”

 

“Y-yes, yes, more, more please-“

 

He yanks you into a desperate kiss, all teeth and tongue and spit, sloppy and uncontrolled, and you respond with a careful thrust, running your hands down his sides, fiddling with the little barbells through his grubscars. He shudders and chirps into your mouth, bucking his hips up into yours, trying to goad you into quicker movement, but that’s not how you roll, and his demands only make you move more slowly, smirking as you run your tongue over the rings in his.

 

“Bro, Bro, you fucking _tease_ -“ he sobs, shaking his head roughly, the dim lighting doing beautiful things to the rings and studs littering his frame, his body arched in perfect display, a canvas decorated with steel and beads. You want to do terrible, terrible things to him. 

 

You pick up the pace, and he  _wails_ , clinging to you, sharp nails raking down your back and you’re going to have deep scratches there later but you can’t give less of a shit.  You’re not even paying attention to yourself at all anymore- it’s all him, the noises he makes, the way he moves, the filthy invectives and demands he mutters as you fuck him into the bed, everything is him, and he’s so fucking perfect you want to keep him forever.

 

“F-fuck, fuck me, please, more, harder, faster-“ he begs, back bowing, trying to get you deeper, and you’ve reached you limit of cruelty [and also the limit of your patience] for the day and oblige, smirking down at him as he pants raggedly for air, desperately trying to match your pace, bulges squirming over his stomach and smearing his grey skin with viscous fluid. 

 

You want a camera in here, recording this. you want to have him on film, and you want to keep it and re-watch it over and over and over again, listen to every last perfect, breathy moan, every clink and jingle of metal against metal. you want to wrap a collar around his throat and hold him by it as he grinds into your lap, you want to lace his rings and studs with thin chains to give you something to pull and tug on, you want to tie him up in metal and leather till he can’t move and fuck him senseless, but most of all, you just want _him_. You want him, and you want to do things to him, and now you have him and you are dead set on keeping him for as long as he wants to be kept. 

 

 

He keens and seizes your head, dragging you down for another kiss and rucking up your hair with his fingers, but you can’t find it in yourself to be too irritated. He’s wanton, lustful, desperately grinding against you as you thrust into him hard and fast, and when you let one hand tangle with his bulge, the other thumbing over the piercings on his hips, he lets out a final high, inhuman cry and comes in waves, shaking and shuddering and clawing up your back as he shivers with pleasure.

 

The expression of sheer, euphoric rapture plastered across his face sends you over the edge a few thrusts afterwards, and you clutch him close, kissing him breathless. 

 

When you separate, he’s dazed, looking up at you like he’s almost confused, and then he starts laughing, small little sniggers at first, melting into full blown, honest to god laughter. 

 

“Oh my god,” he pants between giggles, letting his head fall back onto the bed, baring his throat and his sternum stud to you, “Oh my god, that was- that was-“

 

“Excellent, I hope.”

 

“Is _really fucking good_ acceptable?” 

 

“Only if you try to say that word every single day for the rest of time. _'Aktheptable'_. Fucking perfect.”

 

He giggles again, and you rest your forehead against his, grinning. You won't start laughing with him- you’re way too cool for that- but… he really is cute, smiling and shit. 

 

You wouldn’t mind seeing him smile more often. 

 

And, when you curl up with him, one hand pressed to his chest to feel that strange, double thumping heartbeat as you contemplate how to make him fucking _smile_ more, of all things... that’s sort of when you realized that you were way, way too deep. 

 


End file.
